Blood, Sweat, and Tears
by CowgirlMile1
Summary: A St. Patrick's Day Visit from Maggie...


This was written off a challenge on the Luka/Abby list:  
  
1- Someone has to dress in a Leprechaun suit.   
2- Green, Green, Green. Include the word "Green" or make insinuations   
about the color throughout the whole story.   
3- Clovers  
4- The phrase, "Always after me lucky charms."  
5- A parade. Your characters can either go and get drunk at a parade,   
watch the parade on television, injured people on the parade come to   
the ER... or make your own. But no St. Patrick's Day is complete   
without a parade.   
6- Someone, preferably a person we wouldn't expect, has to get   
drunk. Surprise us.  
  
DISCLAIMER: Ha! Yarite.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~   
  
"Years go by, will I choke on my tears?  
Till finally there is nothing left   
One more casualty you know,  
We're too EASY, easy, easy."   
--Tori Amos  
  
  
Blood, Sweat, and Tears  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
I hate St. Patrick's Day.  
  
I've never understood the appeal of the holiday. In fact, I've never understood the holiday, period. It's just an excuse for Houlihan's to count down how many days are left till the damn day. An excuse for people to hang green flags above their doors. For me, all it has is bad memories. Memories of fights with my husband. Memories of myself, passed out at a random bar. And memories of my mother.  
  
My mother used to get-well, increasingly manic on holidays.   
  
Any holiday.  
  
St. Patrick's Day, Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving.  
  
National Penguin Awareness Day.  
  
Apparently, St. Patrick's Day isn't a big holiday down here either. For a place as big on decorating as the Cook County General ER, the walls are remarkably bare. No decorations, no ribbons, no streamers, no green. Not a single shamrock. No mentions of four-leaf clovers.  
  
Carol's not even here anymore.  
  
But this St. Patrick's Day, I have *something*. I try to convince myself that Luka makes me happy. That this St. Patrick's Day will be different, because there'll be no alcohol. No angry policemen. No deceitful husbands. No lunatic mothers. No loneliness.  
  
Well, maybe just a little.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Apparently, St. Patrick's Day is like a full moon in the ER. All the crazies come out. I'm standing in the middle of curtain area three, watching the particular crazy I've been assigned to take care of, and wondering where the hell a doctor is. My Particular Crazy, Greg (name changed to protect the innocent-until-proven-guilty), is standing on a gurney. He's dressed in a leprechaun suit, and singing-well, slurring-- "Somewhere Over the Rainbow." At the top of his lungs.  
  
I mean, really loud.  
  
It would be nice if I could get him down, get a blood alcohol level, shoot him full of Valium.  
  
"Someday-I'll-wish-upon-a-star-and-wake-up-where-the-clouds-are-far-behind-me-where-troubles-melt-like-lemondrops-away-above-the-chimneytops-that's-where-you'll-FIND-me."  
  
He slips and falls to the floor. Like, hard. I gasp and lurch forward, but he keeps singing. Carter chooses that moment to prance in.  
  
"Hey, Abby. What'dya got?"  
  
"He needs Valium."  
  
He waits for me to elaborate, for me to explain why the drunken singing patient needs Valium, because nurses aren't supposed to prescribe medications. Apparently we're not smart enough to make diagnoses.  
  
I'm a goddamn med student, Carter.   
  
I must be sending off incredibly bad vibes, because Carter doesn't say anything. Just signs the chart. "Okay. Five of Valium. Get a BAL, CBC, and Chem 7." He dusts his lab coat off, as if being near Crazy Patient has contaminated it. "I'll be back in a few minutes."  
  
With something that can be described as the opposite of gentleness, I stab Greg with a needle, pushing the syringe down and letting the Valium course through his veins. I haul him back onto the gurney-horizontal this time-and tie a tourniquet around his arm. Finished drawing blood, I rip it off of him, ignoring his faint babbling, and head for the lab, chart and blood specimen in hand.   
  
"Nurse?" he calls after me.  
  
I sigh and turn around. The only thing worse than crazies who sing are crazies who make requests. "Yes?"  
  
"You look like a girl who likes to have fun," he slurs. Do I radiate that image? "Wanna go out with me?"  
  
I rub my forehead. What a day.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Luka's sitting in the lounge, watching TV. He barely acknowledges me when I come in.   
  
"Hi," I say.   
  
He offers a tight smile, still not tearing his eyes from the television set. "Is it backing up out there?"  
  
I shake my head. "It'll pick up later tonight. What are you watching?"  
  
"Parade from New York," he says. His eyes are glued to it, like it's something incredibly interesting. "Why do Americans have a parade on every holiday?"  
  
"Beats me," I say, pouring myself a cup of coffee. "You want?"  
  
"Sure, thanks." I pour him a mug, the way he likes it: black. "Are you working tonight?"  
  
"No, I'm off at 7."   
  
"Oh." He sounds almost disappointed. "I'm off at midnight." He casts a glance at me. "You wanna come back to my place?"  
  
"Okay," I shrug. The Boys and Girls High School Band marches past us on TV. Katie Couric is saying something about their remarkable courage and strength.  
  
"Did Toto find his way home?" Luka asks.  
  
"*What?*" I turn to look at him.   
  
He laughs. "I asked if you were okay."  
  
I shake my head quickly and laugh slightly. "Yeah, sure. I'm fine."  
  
"You really like that parade, huh?" he chuckles.   
  
Now the Douglas McArthur High School Marching Band is strolling past. Katie's perky voice is telling us how they came "all the way from the San Fernando Valley!"  
  
Wow.  
  
"Fascinating," I mutter, watching high school trumpet players blare 'Twist and Shout.' "You should see the parade we've got going on outside."  
  
"In the ER?"  
  
"Well, more like a St. Patrick's Day fashion pageant." I take a large gulp from my mug. "Ever met a leprechaun?"  
  
Luka nearly chokes on his coffee. "A leprechaun?" he says, mispronouncing the word.  
  
"Leprechaun," I correct. "You know, like the little green guy on TV who says 'Always after me Lucky Charms?'"   
  
He looks at me as if I'm nuts. "Ah."  
  
"Anyway," I say pointedly. "We have one in curtain area three, if you're interested. And Romano's in exam four."  
  
"Doing what?"  
  
"He's drunk."  
  
"He's what?"  
  
"Drunk, you know? Like, too many martinis drunk."  
  
His eyes widen. But before he can reply, Frank sticks his head in the lounge. "Abby!"  
  
I sigh. "Yes, Frank?"  
  
"Your mother's here."  
  
Oh, boy. Not today. I can feel the blood drain from my face. I can hear her in the hallway, out by the admit desk. She's telling someone a story, loud and fast. Yep, that's my mother.  
  
No use denying it this time.  
  
Luka is watching me. "Want me to come with you?"  
  
"N-No," I say. "I'll go talk to her."  
  
"What are you going to say?"  
  
I have no idea.  
  
I walk out to the admit desk. She's wearing a green, sequined, sleeveless-thing. Tight enough to display the flat stomach I've always been envious of, and short enough to allow Frank, and all the other "gentlemen" in the vicinity to get a clear look at her "great legs."  
  
I'm kind of wishing the world would swallow me whole right now. That maybe I could suddenly become invisible, and even if they tried, they couldn't find me.   
  
But then again, when I was a kid, I wished that I would have a puppy. Wished that I could get an A in calculus. Wished that I had a normal mother.  
  
Anyway.  
  
Here we go.  
  
"Hi, Mom." My voice sounds weak. Strained.   
  
"Abby!" she gushes. "I haven't seen you in so long!" She turns away from her conversation with Cleo to embrace me, so tightly I almost expect her to collapse my lungs.   
  
I don't reply. Don't hug back.  
  
She pushes me away from her, and inspects me, as if she hasn't seen me in a decade. "You look gorgeous, darling, but so tired! Look at those bags under your eyes." She turns back to Cleo. "You're not working her too hard, are you?" Without waiting for an answer, she whirls back, her eyes boring through my very soul. "We have so much to catch up on! How's that EuroDoctor of yours?" She's talking ridiculously fast, her words blurring together into one very long phrase. Her voice is grating, unbearable, and it's all I can do to keep from telling her to *shut up!*   
  
I'm beginning to think I should introduce her to Greg. They'd probably hit it right off.  
  
"Mom," I say, cutting her off. "I'm working."  
  
"On St. Patrick's Day?" she says, sucking in her breath as if that's a criminal act.  
  
"How long have you been off your meds, Mom?" Cut right to the chase, Abby. Just do it.  
  
I don't think Nike had this in mind when they coined that slogan.  
  
"Am I off my meds?" she says rhetorically. I try to make my eyes penetrate her, the way hers are penetrating me, but it doesn't work, and I feel stupid trying.   
  
"Maggie…"  
  
"Dr. Carter!" she cries, as he ambles out of exam four. She clonks over to him, nearly tripping over her four inch heels.  
  
Green. Who wears green shoes?  
  
"Maggie," he says, making no attempt to mask his surprise. "How-how are you?"  
  
She babbles on, and I can feel him looking at me, can feel the concern radiating from his gaze. I lean against the wall, trying not to slump, and pinch the bridge of my nose, as if doing so will make this whole situation disappear neatly.   
  
Wrap it in tissue paper and tie it all up in a nice big bow.  
  
I really have a massive headache.  
  
Luka comes up next to me and sighs. Together we watch Maggie, who's animatedly gesturing to the room at large, waving her arms as she tells Carter some incredibly important story. "She's off her meds?"  
  
What tipped you off? "Yep."  
  
"You okay?"  
  
Oh, wonderful. Never been better. "Yep."  
  
He sighs again. "Abby…"  
  
I march away. "Mom," I call, pulling myself face to face with her. "What are you doing here?"  
  
"I came to wish you a Happy St. Patrick's Day," she says, tearing herself away from her conversation with Carter.   
  
Yeah, right.   
  
"Dr. Kovac!" she cries, spotting him over my shoulder. She runs over to kiss his cheek, and he cringes. "How have you been? You look absolutely smashing in that sweater." My mother is flirting with my boyfriend. Luka looks incredibly uncomfortable. "Don't you know you're supposed to where green on St. Patrick's Day," she says, her voice teasing, but unrelenting.   
  
"Mom," I say, my voice dripping with a bitterness and loathing I didn't know I had. "Go home."  
  
I must have said this extremely loudly, because the entire ER turns to look at me. Carter's face reads shock, and I'm sure if I turned around to look at Luka's, it would be the same way. I'm usually a little better at dealing with this.   
  
Maggie's face turns angry. "You little bitch."  
  
"I won't do it again, Maggie," I say warningly. I'm staring at her little green dress, my eyes radiating disgust and 32 years of hate and bad memories.  
  
She lifts her arm, and with a power I didn't know she had, slaps my cheek. Hard. So hard it stings. She sees what she's done, and dissolves into tears. "Oh, Abby, I'm sorry, Abby, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you, Abby, oh, I'm so sorry."  
  
My cheek is burning, and I'm sure it's bright red. I'm sure I'll have a bruise there tomorrow. She feels bad. Good. GOOD. I turn on my heel and walk away.   
  
Fast.  
  
Because I can feel the tears brimming in my eyes. And Abby Lockhart DOES NOT cry in front of other people.  
  
No one. Not my mother, not my brother, not my ex-husband. And certainly not my coworkers.  
  
I can still hear her calling me. Begging for forgiveness. Sobbing and screaming in a manic rage. I stand in the lounge, fighting for composure of some kind.   
  
The door bangs behind me, and it's Luka. He makes no pretenses. "Why's she here?"  
  
"I don't know," I say, trying to sound offhand. I pick up a chart, pretend to read it. "She's visiting for St. Patrick's Day."  
  
He shakes his head angrily. I hang mine miserably-is it a bad sign when your boyfriend hates your mother? "I'm sorry," I whisper.  
  
He watches me for a moment. "For what?"  
  
I laugh shortly. "I understand if you hate me for it."  
  
"For your mother?" he says incredulously. "Abby-I don't hate you. Not at all."  
  
"But you hate her."  
  
"I hate what she does to you," he says intensely. "I hate how she hurts you."  
  
I look at him, almost confused. I was not expecting that. I think it's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me.  
  
Sad, isn't it?  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
I used to be beautiful  
But now it's all gone  
I let my dreams slip away from me  
That's where it went wrong.  
--Edwin McCain  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
It's amazing how quickly things change. How one minute the sky can be blue and sunny, and the next minute the clouds are rolling in, and the rain is soaking through you to chill you to the core. How one day your husband can be wonderful, and the next he's sleeping with a college student. How one hour your mother can be standing in the middle of the ER, screaming your name, and the next she's lying in your bathtub, wrists slit, a suicide note in her pocket.  
  
I'm used to change. Mood changes, lifestyle changes, job changes. I'm used to having things be one way one minute, and completely different the next.  
  
I'm also used to suicide attempts. My mother threatened to kill herself-or tried to kill herself-so often that it became almost commonplace. Something you talked about over oatmeal and orange juice with your brother. Yep, mom'll be out of the psychiatric hospital next week. They said to get all the prescription drugs out of the house…  
  
I never actually expected her to really do it.  
  
It was a childhood nightmare come to life. She'd run out of the hospital, screaming and crying. Carter convinced me to go check my apartment, see if she was there, maybe get her back in to the hospital. Get her some help.   
  
As if she wanted help.  
  
The door is open, and I know she is there. "Mom?" I call, trying to keep the anger out of my voice as I shut it behind me.   
  
There is no answer. I set my purse down on the table, next to hers-green, of course-and continue into the apartment. "Mom?" She's not in the bedroom, or the living room. "Mom?" The door to the bathroom is closed, and I knock on it. "Maggie?" No one answers, so I push it open.   
  
I scream.  
  
It's an animal cry I almost fail to recognize as my own. A horrified, agonized shriek, resounding and pained, reverberating over and over in my head until it has burned every crevasse of my brain. It's a cry I will hear in my sleep, and a scene that will haunt me for years to come.  
  
It's what I've always fantasized, what I've always feared. She's lying there, in her little green dress and her little green shoes, comfortably seated in my bathtub. But instead of a pool of water, she's drowning in a pool of blood. Red, syrupy blood, mixing with the green sequins of her dress.   
  
It's a sickening combination, and I turn around and empty my lunch into the toilet. The bathroom stinks of vomit and blood and urine.   
  
Medical instinct takes over. I feel her carotid artery. No pulse. Did I expect there to be one?  
  
Honestly, yes. You always expect your mother to have a pulse.  
  
I dig my cell phone out of my pocket and dial 911. My voice is placid, almost serene as I report to the operator. The woman's voice is reassuring. An ambulance will be there in a few minutes. Try to remain calm.   
  
The minutes seem like hours. I pick my mother up and haul her out of the bathtub, onto the hard tile floor. Her blood is everywhere, soaking my hands and my clothing. She still doesn't have a pulse.  
  
You can't do CPR when a person is bleeding severely. You have to control the bleeding, or chest compressions won't do a damn thing. But I do it anyway. Onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnineteneleventwelvethirteenfourteenfifteen…two rescue breaths. Again, and again, and again. I check her pulse after every four cycles, just like "CPR For the Professional Rescuer" instructs you to do.   
  
She doesn't have a pulse. So I keep going.  
  
I hear the paramedics knock, and I go to answer it. It's Pam.   
  
Of course.  
  
"Abby?" she says.  
  
I give her something that could be a smile, but could also be a grimace. "Yeah. Hi." I lead them to the bathroom. "My mother. She, uh, I think she slit her wrists."  
  
"Does she have a pulse?" Pam asks, setting her bag down and kneeling besides my mother's bloody, prone body.  
  
So much blood.  
  
"No," I whisper.  
  
Pam listens to my mom's green, bloody chest with her stethoscope, and she and her partner exchange glances, which I don't miss.  
  
"Abby," she says softly, her voice sad.   
  
I nod. I know.  
  
"We'll bring her in," Pam says suddenly. "Maybe they can get her back."  
  
I know they can't. But I nod, and help them roll my mother's body onto a backboard. Follow them out to the ambulance. Sit in the back on the short ride to County, sirens blaring.  
  
There's blood all over my hands, all over my clothes. I feel like I should be crying, but I'm not. I can't. This isn't real.   
  
The ambulance doors open, revealing Carter and Luka. They gasp in unison. "Abby!" Luka cries.   
  
Pam rolls the gurney out onto the pavement. "Maggie Wyczenski, 54. Apparent suicide attempt, slit her wrists. Defibrillated times two en route, couldn't get a pulse back. Two amps epi…"  
  
Luka holds me back as they barrel down the hall of the ER, aiming for a trauma room. "What happened?" he asks.  
  
"She slit her wrists," I answer, as if I'm telling him she got lost on her way to the mall.   
  
Luka looks at me incredulously for a second, but quickly manages to drop the shocked look from his face. "Are you okay?" he asks, his eyes taking in the blood on my clothing.  
  
"Mmm-hmmm."   
  
We walk down the hall toward trauma one. I try not to grip Luka's hand too tightly. His arm is wrapped around my waist supportively, and I think I might fall over if it weren't there.   
  
Kerry and Carter are already coming out of the trauma room by the time we make it there. "Abby," Kerry starts, as if she's about to give me terrible news I haven't heard yet. As if she doesn't want to be the messenger.  
  
I already know. So I nod.  
  
"I'm so sorry," she says. I nod again.  
  
They're all staring at me as if I might break. As if I might suddenly just crack into a million pieces and be left for them to glue back together. No one says anything.  
  
Chuny breaks the silence, walking over to us and saying in a quiet voice, "She left a note." She holds the folded square of green paper out, as if not sure who to give it to.  
  
Both Luka and Carter reach for it, but I'm faster. "Thank you," I say sharply, glaring at both of them. She nods, and walks away.  
  
It's silent for another moment as I stand, looking at the piece of paper. I don't want to open it. I'm afraid to open it.   
  
The silence is becoming suffocating, so I break it. "I'm, uh, gonna go change," I say, gesturing to my blood covered scrubs. "Um, thank you."  
  
I can feel their eyes on me as I walk to the lounge. My hands shake as I put the note in my locker. I don't want to open it. I don't ever want to open it.  
  
In the women's bathroom, I strip off my pink scrub pants and pitch them in the garbage. Their usual hue of pink has turned a nasty shade of dried-blood red, and I want to throw up again. Instead, I pull on a pair of green scrub pants, which, although four sizes too big, feel a hell of a lot better. Hands still shaking, I take off my scrub jacket and black shirt. Both join the pants in the garbage.   
  
The green scrub top comes down to my knees. I feel ridiculous, but at least there's no blood.   
  
Except on my hands. As Macbeth said, it will takes oceans and oceans to wash the blood off my hands.  
  
They're all still standing there when I come out. I almost expect them to be laughing at my outrageously huge green scrubs, but they're not. I try not to look over there, and instead go over to the desk and pick up a chart. Morrison, Krystal. Needs an IV and a CBC. Fine.  
  
"Abby?" Kerry calls from in front of the trauma room.   
  
I sigh and close my eyes tightly. I can't go back there. I just can't. I can't look in the window and see her, in that green dress and those green shoes. I can't go back there. I just can't.  
  
I make myself walk over there. "Yes?" I say, doing my best to put on a pleasant smile. I don't think it comes out quite that way.   
  
She looks at me carefully. "Are you okay?"  
  
"Yeah, fine," I say. I'm always fine. I have to be fine.  
  
She gestures at the chart in my hand. "What are you doing?"  
  
"I'm still on," I say. "I don't get off till 7." It's only two o'clock. This day has been unbearably long.  
  
"Abby," she says quietly. "You can go home. We'll cover for you."   
  
I shake my head. "Really," I say. "I'm okay, I can stay. I have a day…"  
  
"No," Kerry says, cutting me off. "Abby, I'm really sorry about your mother. I know this is hard. But I think you need some time off now. Go ahead, go home."  
  
"Dr. Weaver," I start to protest.  
  
"Luka, take her home," she says, completely ignoring me. She rubs my shoulder comfortingly. "I'll call you in a couple days."  
  
I turn to Carter to continue my protest, but he just gives me a sad, sympathetic look, a hug, and follows Kerry away.  
  
Luka leads me to the lounge. "Luka," I say weakly.   
  
"Abby," he sighs, opening his locker. "Why don't you want to go home?"  
  
Because my bathtub is full of my mother's blood. Because her purse is sitting on my table, as if she's sleeping in the living room. Because I want to put off reading her note, which I've just transferred from my locker to my pocket, for as long as possible.   
  
He puts a strong, comforting arm around me, and together we walk to the El. Neither of us says anything. The green square of paper is burning a hole in my green scrub pants, but I can't open it in front of Luka. I can't cry in front of Luka.   
  
I know he's waiting for me to break down. I sit on the bed in his hotel room, fidgeting, not sure what to do with myself. Luka's not sure what to do either.  
  
"Do you want something to eat?" he asks nervously. "Soup, tea? I can go down and get sandwiches?"  
  
"No, I'm okay," I say. I can't take it anymore. I grab the note from my pocket. If it makes me cry, well-the bathroom's not very far away.   
  
'Dear Abigail,' it says in her childish scrawl handwriting. The silver pen against the light green paper is difficult to read. 'I'm sorry for hurting you. I'm sorry you had such a terrible childhood. I've finally decided to be unselfish, and give you what you want. I want to take some of the pain out of your life. Tell Eric I love him. Mom.'  
  
This is all my fault. This is ALL. My. Fault.   
  
I'm not sure exactly what happens, but the next thing I know, I'm sobbing into Luka's shoulder. Pitiful, agonized, childlike cries of hurt and anger and sorrow. One of his hands is rubbing comforting circles on my back, and the other is stroking my hair, gently ridding it of knots and tangles.   
  
"Oh, God," I moan, clutching his sweater. "Oh, God. It's all my fault, Luka. She hated me. It's all my fault."  
  
"It's not your fault," he's whispering. "You didn't do this, Abby. None of this is your fault." He kisses my hairline gently, and holds me tighter. "None of this is your fault, Abby."  
  
I have the sense that the world is falling apart. That if I let go of Luka, I'm going to spin out of control, like Dorothy trapped in a tornado, and all I'm going to be left with is little green munchkins, and no heart, and no courage, and an Emerald City that's just too far away.   
  
I don't know how I long I cry for, but finally, I sit up. There's a large wet spot on Luka's sweater, and my hair is matted and soaked with tears. "I'm sorry," I choke.  
  
He tilts my head up to face him. "You don't ever have to apologize, Abby. For anything."  
  
The tears are still running down my cheeks. I nod.  
  
"Do you want to talk about it?" he asks.  
  
I offer him the suicide note. He reads it and sucks in his breath.   
  
"I tried so hard, Luka," I say brokenly. "I never thought she'd actually do it. She hated me, I mean, she really hated me. I killed her."  
  
"You didn't kill her anymore than I killed my wife and children, Abby." His eyes are sad, but he understands. "Anymore than Carter killed Lucy." I cover my mouth with my hand, trying not to cry again. He draws me back into his arms. "Life happens, Abby. Things can't be explained."  
  
"Why does everything have to be so hard?" I plead, my voice cracking.   
  
He has no answer for that.   
  
I remember a time when things were easier. When the five candles on your chocolate ice cream birthday cake really meant five wishes, and the world wasn't quite so cold. I remember a time when you could get anything you wanted. I remember a time when you could change things if you didn't like them, when they didn't always have to be this way. I remember a time when I was in control, and life didn't have to be a struggle.  
  
It seems like a long time ago.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
I used to be powerful  
But now it's all gone  
I let my dreams take control of me  
That's where it went wrong.  
--Edwin McCain  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
  
  



End file.
